“I think in its own little way, this has been quite a charming scene. At least it has spiced up my afternoon. And I want you to call us and bring your wife over. I mean that, Norm.”
We walked to the door and she suddenly gave me a kiss, pressing her breasts against me, whispered, “Please don't look like such a hurt little boy, Norm, darling. I suppose I simply couldn't resist being the clever bitch, making with the jokes.”
I tapped her on the behind. “It's okay, I put my foot in so far nothing makes it any worse or better. Do me one favor, forget this ever happened?”
“Scouts' honor. And don't you be a fool either... telling your wife or any of that movie crap. Remember, I want the four of us to get together soon.”
I said we would and downstairs I started walking back to the apartment. I'd never felt like such a fool. I kept thinking of Jackson Clair and his line about stupid mistakes. Damn, how stupid can one get?
Then, after I'd walked a block or so, the true reaction set in. What did it matter if I sat in Times Square on high noon wearing a dunce cap? I was free! Everything was fine with my own world again. I wanted to dance in the street, do summersaults—I used to be good at tumbling. I wanted to do something crazy, like smash a window, bust a total stranger on the nose.
I came whistling into the apartment, carrying ginger beer and beer. After tipping the startled janitor's wife-nurse five bucks, I undressed, made a pitcher of shandy-gaff, and drank it slowly as I sat beside Michele's bed, admiring my lovely wife. I carefully stretched out beside her, my fingers gently touching the parts of her body I loved the most as I tumbled off into a wonderful sleep.
Later, at about ten, I awoke and ate like a pig, enjoyed an English movie on TV. I was in such a state of bliss I damn near giggled at myself. When I finally got back to bed it was too hot to sleep. After while Michele awoke. She seemed rested, if still a bit groggy. She kept repeating what the doe had said about it being impossible to tell if she'd actually been pregnant or not. The more she talked about it, the greater comfort it seemed to give her.
I told her I loved her in every way I could. Even found myself saying, ”... and if you ever leave me again, run across the Ocean to mama, I'll kill you.” Of course that started me on Matt, and she was interested in the case. We got up and had a snack. I wanted her to go back to bed but she stayed up to see the late-late show on TV, a “ghoulie” as Michele called the pictures in which most of the actors were now dead. It was as if she'd never left me.
I wanted to take a few days off but didn't have the nerve to ask Bill—having been away a week. Michele saw a doctor in the afternoon and he assured her we could try for a baby anytime we wished. We had supper out that night. The following evening we dined with some of her UN friends, took in a play.
While Michele didn't seem too interested in the house, I insisted we buy it. I think I really wanted it. So we bought it, and spent the rest of the summer working like loons, painting, cleaning, planting, decorating. Even fixing the plumbing. It turned out, to our amazement, that we were both handy with tools. I even enjoyed making like a commuter. All in all, that August was one of the most happy and relaxed months we ever had.
Whether it was having Michele back, the house, or even oar trying so hard for a kid—time raced by. If it only seemed a few days later, it was actually the end of September when Matt Anthony's trial started. And I'd almost forgotten about him. Except for a one paragraph item in the papers when Jackson Clair changed Matt's plea to innocent by reason of insanity and asked that Matt be examined by state psychiatrists, the case had dropped out of the news.
Marty Kelly hadn't thought too much of my ad campaign but I was sure of it. We ran our first ads two weeks before the trial was due, and along with a few cases of Scotch and other gifts we not only planted our items in all the major columns, but sent out special releases to every small columnist we could find. Marty placed Bill Long on several radio and TV interviews where he piously explained the problems facing a book publisher—of course using Matt's book as an illustration.
The book sale was far from sensational, but it did well. Over half the first printing of 12,000 copies sold before the trial, with reorders mounting every day. The sales department ran off a small second edition.
I didn't have much time for handball, or Frank, although we had the Kuhns out to the house for a weekend. When I did have lunch with him, after the book was out, and he told me of an opening in an agency for $10,000—'as a starter, of course'—he was puzzled when I said I wasn't interested. He thought it was the money—I'd told him Bill had promised me a “substantial” raise after the January stockholders meet-jog—and Frank kept assuring me I'd double the ten grand in “two years, minimum.” I guess I didn't do much of a job explaining why I was turning it down. I could hardly explain without insulting Frank.
The trial opened on a Thursday in Riverside. Bill Long thought somebody from the firm should attend. I said it should be me—I felt a part of the case, wanted to be in at the wind-up.
Michele was back at school teaching: her suggestion. I hated to spend a few days apart, and although she wanted to spend the weekend at the house, see about a boat we were considering, she finally agreed to come out to Riverside for the weekend.
PART II
The Trial
Never having attended a criminal trial before, much less one involving murder, for me there was a confusing air of unreality in the crowded courtroom. I had the feeling of watching an amateur production of a corny melodrama. Certainly there was nothing in the attitude of the morbid spectators, dressed in their Sunday best, or about Matt himself, to suggest a life was being tried.
By the time I arrived I could find a seat only in the rear of the courtroom. I saw May Fitzgerald and the Hunters sitting up front together. Prof. Brown was in the row behind them. Joel seemed nervous while Wilma was dressed to make an impression in a tight mild blue suit which showed off her good figure and red hair.
Matt Anthony appeared calm and at ease, practically lounging in his chair. He was very much 'the author' in a shaggy, tweed sports coat that made his tremendous shoulders stand out, a plaid dress shirt and a matching tie. There was a thick pad of paper in front of him and several pencils. When he wasn't writing furious notes, Matt casually glanced around the courtroom, as though he was the spectator. Although the judge had ruled against Matt having a tape recorder in court, Matt was going ahead with his 'book' in long hand. Bill Long told me Maggie had already received the first chapter, along with a sealed envelope and some hocus-pocus instructions from Matt that this wasn't to be opened until he had sent in the complete manuscript. Maggie was waiting for more chapters before reaching any decision, of course. Jackson Clair sat next to Matt, also very much at his ease. He was not only wearing his beaded belt, but his tie clasp was in the form of a tiny silver broken arrow from which the Phi Beta Kappa key hung like a neon light.
The prosecutor, Sidney Wagner, looked about 40, a dried-up man with thin features. He wore a very conservative blue serge, a stiff collar and a plain dark tie. He suggested starch and ironing in the kitchen: small time stuff. His pale face was lacking any show of emotion or imagination.
The judge looked the part: plump, gray hair, and a mixture of dignity and self-importance. The jury had been selected the day before, three women and nine men—very average looking locals, and seemingly quite pleased with their roles.
The trial started promptly at 10:30 a.m. when Wagner addressed the jury. I supposed his speech established a brevity record for trial openings. He had a cold, forceful voice and was stingy with words. The second he opened his mouth you knew you were listening to a capable man. And if he looked old fashioned!—so does a rattle snake. He said, “Mr. Foreman, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The State will prove that on July 25th last, in the presence of witnesses, Mr. Matt Anthony threatened to kill his wife, Francine Anthony. Several hours later, with clear premeditation and intent, Matt Anthony murdered his wife. It is the State's contention that after threatening his wife's life, when he later noticed Fran-cine Anthony out fishing, Matt Anthony saw this as an opportunity to carry out his threat; that he planned to swim out and beat his wife to death, which he did. He further planned, with his considerable knowledge of criminal methods, to make the murder appear to be an accident. He was not successful in this, and later that same day confessed to killing Francine Anthony. The State will prove all this by testimony and facts, and with such proof will ask that you find Matt Anthony guilty of murder.”